Lives In the Balance
by Anera527
Summary: Eighteen years ago, Voldemort was seemingly defeated in Godric's Hollow. But now strange things have started to occur in wizarding Britain, and a savior is needed before all is lost. Oh, and was it mentioned that Harry Potter went missing as well?
1. Chapter 1

"_**Lives In the Balance"**_

Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own Harry Potter. Any characters I created are my own.

_Somewhere In Wizarding Britain, September, 1999_

It was in an undistinguished pub that they found their inquiry, a tiny run-down shack of a building that was called the _Lucky Annie_. Standing quietly in the shadows of the night across the street from the building, the two companions glanced at each other with raised eyebrows—_really_? Of all places, they were going to have to take the fugitive back in a _bar_? It was almost pathetic.

"I didn't know Davis drank," the taller of the two, the boy, remarked quietly, sounding almost surprised.

His companion, a girl his own age, and in fact a little older, rolled her eyes. "There's a lot about Davis we _don't know_," she replied, slightly impatiently. "Come on—we need to get this over with so we can get back home. We've been gone four days already."

"Wanting to finish that book by midnight tonight, huh?" he smirked, snaking an arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick one-armed hug before releasing her.

"It was a good book," she grumbled half-heartedly. "Besides, Quinn wanted us to have that potion made for her before the end of the week. We're running on limited time here."

Her response served to focus his attention immediately, and he was suddenly set upon their task entirely, their playful banter from even a moment before forgotten. "You're right," he agreed, and an excited grin spread across his face. "Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_. How often do you get to detain a fugitive?"

Davis could feel his hand shaking slightly as he ordered another firewhiskey, and he had to keep himself from looking over his shoulder at the door of the pub in case that showed his guilt. He didn't know if he would be able to lose his pursuers, but if he was correct in his assumptions of who he thought it was then he knew there would be little chance of him escaping.

He'd be damned, though, if he didn't make a stand before he was recaptured.

He shakily rose the glass to his lips, spilling some of the liquid down his chin as he did so, drinking it in one go. His throat burned with the whiskey but he found it a strangely welcoming sensation; it made him feel alive, calmed his frayed nerves. Noticing the bartender standing there looking at him curiously, Davis lowered his glass and managed a strained smile, hoping it would smooth the man's suspicions. He cursed himself—he looked exactly what he really was, a runaway, with dirty, rumpled clothing and four days' worth growth of beard. He hadn't had a proper bath in days and his long grey hair was tangled and dirty. He didn't know how much longer he could go on like this.

He was just beginning to stand from his seat to leave when the doors of the pub were opened and two familiar figures stepped in. Davis felt his stomach drop and his heart started to pound against his chest. He'd been found! He swallowed hard against his panic and dropped back into the chair, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible as he heard the boy speak.

"We're not here to harm anyone," he said lazily, the faintest drawl accenting the utterly confidant tone: "We're only here to pick up a _friend_ of ours." There was also a hidden, barely detectable threat in that voice that said none had better get in the way of the _friend_ they were collecting. Davis did not dare turn around but he could easily picture the boy standing there, one hand resting comfortably on his waist, his easy-going posture masking the careful warrior he was. The girl would be standing behind him, ready to spring into action at a moment's action, the hidden weapon in this unbeatable duo.

"And who is it you're lookin' for, kid?" the bartender asked, eyeing the stranger carefully.

There was a low chuckle. "The man sitting right beside you," he answered. Davis stiffened. "Turn around, Davis. You can't run anymore."

The muscles of Davis' shoulders tightened and he felt his teeth clench together. His hands, gnarled and calloused, clenched on the surface of the bar, and he took a deep breath, desperately wishing for his wand. Then he sprang into action. He leapt off his seat as gracefully as he could, setting himself up in a defensive posture, and came face-to-face with the boy, who merely shook his head.

"Davis," he said quietly. "You know you've got to come with us."

"No!" he snarled, his teeth bared. The bar had fallen silent; the people there sat looking at the odd confrontation before them but did nothing to intervene. "I'm not going to let you lock me away again!"

The girl shook her head sadly. "You know we don't do that. _Please_, Davis," she pleaded, "please just come with us. It really is in your best interest."

Davis growled. "Never!" He leapt for the door, desperate to escape—

But then the boy was there, a smirk on his face. "You goin' somewhere?" he asked, and Davis swung a fist at him, but the boy blocked him. When he aimed a foot at his legs, the boy simply leaped over it and followed it with a kick of his own, knocking Davis off his feet and sprawling him on the floor. Quick as lightning he sprang back to his feet, aiming a fist again at the boy's cheek to stun him—

And the boy bent backwards, lithe as a cat, and grabbed his wrist in a tight, un-escapable grip. With a strength he didn't look like he had, the boy lifted a knee and hit Davis hard in the stomach, who doubled over from the pain. The boy followed it up with an elbow to the back of the head, and Davis slumped unconscious to the floor. The boy straightened and brushed his hair back; he wasn't even breathing heavily, and he looked down at the man he had just knocked out in a dispassionate way.

The girl, who had not moved a bit since the start of the fight, looked almost curiously at him. "You ready to leave, then, Harry?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry nodded. "Of course, 'Mione," he said with a wide grin. Trusting she would watch his back, he bent down and threw Davis' body over his shoulder, and then without a backwards glance calmly left the pub, which stood in stunned surprise from the quick fight that had just taken place. Hermione gave the bar one last sweeping glance, then turned and followed Harry out the doors. He had already slipped into the shadows of the night, utterly silent as Cleo and Natle had shown and practically _beaten_ into them. She had no trouble catching up to him, though—his imprint of magic was very strong and she had only to follow it; when she finally did catch up to him, he looked over at her with the smile she had always known and loved.

"What kept you so long?" he asked lightly. She could see the humor in his eyes even in the moonlight.

She huffed. "Not everyone's as tall as you," she grumbled, crossing her arms. Although the same age as Harry, and in fact being a few months older, Hermione was almost a head shorter than he was.

His smile, a real one this time, widened but it was still soft. She needed only worry if it hardened. Oh, not for herself, of course. No, she knew that Harry would never hurt you, but to see him truly angry… She shuddered to herself and carefully shoved those thoughts away.

"Can't help height, 'Mione," he replied with a sympathetic look, but then it faded into a serious one. "You don't think that Cleo's going to be too concerned we've been gone so long, do you?"

She shrugged. "Only one way to find out, I guess."

He blinked to show his agreement and, shifting Davis onto a more secure position on his shoulder, reached out to grab Hermione's hand in his own. One turn on their heels and they were suddenly gone like a breath on the wind.

The building they Apparated to was in a heavily-wooded area of England, a great bleak-looking castle that seemed to melt into the night. They could feel the strength of the protective wards surrounding it even from where they were standing—to Muggles and even wizards not included in the Fidelius Charm, they would see nothing but wooded country and if they got too close they would seem to remember an important task and then would promptly leave.

But Harry and Hermione merely smiled at the familiar sight before them, glad to be back home. They gripped hands and quickly approached the ancient castle spread out so majestically. It was Aidan, a friend of theirs since childhood and Cleo's nephew, who met them at the doors, his black eyes softening when seeing them.

"We're very glad you could make it back so easily," he told them with a smile. "And I see you've brought back Davis to us. Well. At least Cleo will be pleased, though I don't see why we can't just kill the blasted half-breed and save ourselves a lot of trouble."

"Aidan!" Hermione gasped, looking shocked at his audacity. "You _know_ we don't kill anyone without a very good reason!"

"And I think the creature has become a liability," Aidan replied calmly. "He has escaped three times in the past twenty years! Suppose he escapes again and this time seriously injures, even kills, an innocent person? I'm telling you, he has become a liability and a danger to our lives and the lives of others!"

"You have spent too much time undercover with Dark wizards, Aidan," Harry admonished him gently, shaking his head. "They have taught you too much useless violence." Hermione nodded in agreement. That was just the way they did things—Harry had never had any problem standing up to others, even superiors several decades older than himself, and Hermione would silently give him her support. That was just the system of Harry and Hermione, and no one ever tried to figure it out or stop it.

Aidan nodded reluctantly. "Perhaps you are right," he admitted softly as he took Davis from Harry's grasp and led the two teenagers into the castle. "But suppose he gives up the site of this place," he said. "All of these hundreds of lives compromised, just because this one werewolf got away."

"You know as well we that Davis has not been in his correct frame of mind for years," Harry answered. "He can't help it if he still believes that his family is alive. He's just trying to get back to them."

"And he'll find them six feet under," Aidan replied, his tone sharpening slightly, and this told the two teens that they should not fight this anymore. "I will discuss this matter with Cleo—you two will essentially forget all of this, correct?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes," she said softly. Neither of them looked very happy about it, but they would not go against a direct order from a superior. Not even over something like this.

Especially not with Cleo's blood nephew.

Aidan nodded. "Good. Now, I'll go tell Aunt you have arrived, and you will go get yourselves cleaned up. You can speak with her tomorrow."

With only a glance, the two teens shared an agreement and an assurance to each other before they both turned back to the older young man. "Yes, sir," they said in unison, and bowed their heads slightly in response to the order. Then, not even sparing him a glance, they turned from Aidan and swiftly strode away.

_Author's Note: Confused? If so, the second chapter will explain everything, it'll be up in a few days, at least two weeks. This story is going at its own pace since I'm currently still working my butt off in my senior year in high school, and on top of that, I've got a part in our school play, so needless to say I haven't been this tired in years._

_SPOILER: Saw _Woman In Black_ in theaters… the ending made me laugh, and cry. Cry, because it's sad, laugh because all I could think of was the David Allen Coe song that went, "I was drunk my mom got outta prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain. But before I could get to the station in the pick-up truck, she got run over by a damned old train." Hilarious, but sad. Anywho, read and review, please!_


	2. Chapter 2

"_**Chapter 2"**_

_Godric's Hollow, Halloween 1981_

All that was left of the small, homey cottage was a crumbling building, its roof sagging, the whole foundation shifted. One whole section of the house had been blasted away, from what no one knew. The only thing wizarding Britain knew was that something tragic had just happened there.

It was a haunting thing to find that the whole downstairs of the cottage looked perfectly normal; slightly messy, well-lived in, cloaks thrown over chairs, books casually strewn around on tables. The sofa still had imprints on it from someone sitting on its cushions.

A wand was found there, resting innocently from where its owner had dropped it.

Then, there the banister James Potter's body lay fallen on the floor, his still-open hazel eyes frozen in a look of fear and determination. There was no sign of violence upon him, no struggle to keep his life, he was just… dead.

The Avada Kedavra curse. The most unforgivable of the Unforgivable Curses.

Lord Voldemort, the Darkest wizard Britain had seen in almost six centuries had found where the Potters lived.

The second floor of the cottage was where everything was in disarray. The area near the stairs was not so much of a disaster, but as one moved closer to the nursery at the end of the hall the damage grew steadily more apparent.

The door of the nursery was hanging off its hinges. The dresser lay overturned, stuffed animals were scattered everywhere, and whole sections of the walls spread like confetti on the floor. Cold, silver moonlight shone into the room from where the roof had been blasted away. There, lying in front of the crib, Lily Potter was found, dead just like her husband, her emerald eyes glazed and unseeing. It was clear she had died protecting her child; there was no sign of Voldemort, except a pile of robes and some dust.

There was no crying child to be found, however, when the house was searched.

The cradle stood empty.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was in complete and total chaos. Classes had been temporarily suspended in the light of Lord Voldemort's defeat, the students celebrating in their own loud, exciting ways. After all of these years of terror and pain and death, the one responsible for it was finally gone.

Only a few were not celebrating there—Albus Dumbledore, for one. He was just as glad that Voldemort was gone and had gone and given wizardkind a temporary respite from darkness, but he did not believe that the Dark Lord was gone for good. Then there was the awful tragedy that had taken place at Godric's Hollow, the steep price that had been paid for this newfound peace. Albus could not find it within himself to celebrate with the murders of James and Lily Potter; it didn't seem feel right to do so, like he would be disrespecting them if he did so.

He could not celebrate in the face of Harry Potter's disappearance, either. That was the real problem that was bothering the Headmaster. The child was only a year old, he couldn't have just _left_ on his own violation. It couldn't have been Death Eaters, either— Albus had not felt any Dark energy other than Voldemort's in the cottage.

No, the boy had just _disappeared_.

Seated at his desk, Albus breathed out a heavy sigh and wearily rubbed his eyes. There was just too much about that night and its events that were unexplainable. He didn't know if anyone would ever get answers.

Where could Harry Potter possibly be?


	3. Chapter 3

"_**Chapter 3"**_

Harry?"

Hermione's voice caused him to look up from the paper he was idly drawing on, and he found her standing at his doorway. She had clearly come from the showers and was preparing to go to bed (probably having read the rest of the book while in the bathroom). Her hair was still damp and he could smell the scent of her shampoo. The usual serious look he was so familiar with was on her face, and he thought he could guess what was troubling her. He motioned for her to shut the door behind her, then waved his wand and cast Silencing Charms around them.

"Come on in, 'Mione."

With a soft smile, she immediately walked over to his bed and sat down on the green blanket. He stood and joined her, and they simply sat in comfortable silence as she gathered her nerve to speak—to be caught talking out against a superior's orders meant punishment, and they had been told to forget about their previous assignment.

"Harry," she finally said softly, "do you think it's right that they're willing to kill Davis just because he escaped again?"

There it was, the question bothering both of them—Hermione was just better at cutting directly to the chase with these sorts of questions; she saw things in a less grey way than Harry did. He shook his head helplessly. "I don't think so, no," he answered slowly. "I don't think that it's right to kill someone who isn't even in control of themselves… that would just be cold-blooded murder. Do I agree that Davis could endanger us? Yes," he admitted reluctantly. "But he shouldn't be _killed_. I don't think Cleo will agree to kill him."

"I just hope..." Hermione began, but then she couldn't seem to bring herself to finish the thought.

He knew what she was thinking. "You just don't want to be the one responsible, having helped caught him, if he is killed," he said for her, and she nodded.

"I don't even want to think about it."

"Hey," he said softly then, seeing her anguish, "nothing's been done yet. Like I said, I don't think Cleo will go along with Aidan on this one. We shouldn't worry about this unless we _have_ to."

His words seemed to calm her and ally her fears, and with a small, grateful smile, she slid closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Thanks, little brother," she said quietly.

He grinned. "What are siblings for?" he asked cheekily, earning a quiet snort of laughter from her.

They had been together since forever. Not a day had gone by when they weren't by each other's sides, getting into trouble, training together, so close that they could communicate with only a look. They were not bonded by blood, but they were still as close as any biological siblings. From what they had always been told, Hermione had been found at the age of only ten months in the ruins of her parents' house. Voldemort had targeted the Muggle neighborhood she had been born in and she had been the only one still alive after the Dark Lord's Death Eaters had razed the town to the ground. It had been Cleo herself who had discovered the screaming infant, and she had said that she did not have the heart to leave such "a defenseless life" to suffer and die. Then, a year and one month later, Quinn brought in Harry after Voldemort's attack in Godric's Hollow. They took him in just as they had Hermione.

That had been almost eighteen years ago. Harry and Hermione were both nineteen now, Hermione almost half a year older, fully-qualified wizards, and very powerful for their age. They considered themselves to be brother and sister, even if they looked nothing alike. Hermione was small and petite, with a large quantity of bushy brown curls she kept short and as manageable as possible, and warm, calculating chocolate brown eyes. She was very intelligent, and she was rarely ever seen without a book. Exceedingly logical, she had actually been accused of being harsh and rather ruthless when it came to protecting those she cared for.

Where Hermione was cold calculation, however, Harry was all passionate fire, slow to anger but truly frightening to witness while in a fury, tall and lithe and graceful. Powerful. Unlike Hermione, who was careful and finesse with her spell-work, Harry was sheer, violent power with a loud, commanding technique that still kept him unpredictable. Also unlike his adoptive older sister, he was tall and muscular, with a shaggy mess of raven-black hair he rarely bothered to cut, a handsome, chiseled face, and the most stunning, ethereal pair of emerald green eyes. He didn't look like a powerful wizard, though—he hid it behind a façade of a careless, laid back teenaged boy who had not an ounce of maturity. Hermione teased about that sometimes, told him he would eventually become what he acted.

She knew, however, that he could never become what he portrayed himself to be. In reality, Harry was very open to those he cared for, wearing his heart on his sleeve. Logic held little meaning to him—he listened instead to his instincts and his gut. He was the morale compass as well, the one looked to for what was right and what was wrong.

Being a Grey wizard sometimes meant blurring the two.

Hermione yawned now behind a hand, and with a low chuckle Harry fell backwards on the bed, wrapping his arms around her as she curled into his side, using his shoulder still as a pillow. "You think we should go talk to El tomorrow?" she asked sleepily, already feeling her eyelids drooping.

He shrugged, yawning himself. "Dunno," he answered quietly. "You have the papers done?"

"Uh-hmmm."

"I guess we can then."

He waited until she fell asleep before he moved. Knowing she was a heavy sleeper, Harry slid out from beneath her and set her more comfortably beneath the covers. Then he put his papers away and quickly changed into his own nightclothes, lifting the_ Silencio _charm as he did so. Turning the light off, he allowed himself a few moments' pleasure of the surrounding land from the open window, from which sweet autumn wind was blowing. Then he stretched and turned back to the bed. He smiled slightly at the sight of Hermione curled up sleeping—they hadn't spent the night in each other's rooms for a long time, only when they felt troubled or decidedly upset, but neither of them minded sharing the bed every once in a while. There was nothing between them besides a sibling-ship.

Running a hand through his unruly hair, he pulled the covers back and slid into the bed himself, keeping one of the sheets still separating them, and drew an arm around her waist and drew her closer.

He felt uneasy. It was a restless, almost aching tightening in his gut that kept him tense and wary. He didn't know if Hermione could sense it, but he didn't think so—he had been careful to hide it from her. He didn't want to worry her any more than she usually did, but he could sense something coming—something that would turn his and Hermione's world upside down.

"Albus."

Minerva McGonagall's familiar voice caused him to look up from his paperwork as he sat at his desk. Still the Headmaster of Hogwarts, he was tasked with so many different jobs that sometimes he wondered if he should retire.

But no. He really did enjoy his job as Headmaster, stressful as it could be at times, and he knew he would be rather unhappy if he did leave the school.

"Minerva." He smiled at her and held up the small silver dish sitting on his desk. "Lemon drop?"

The Transfiguration professor's nostrils flared with irritation and her Scottish accent grew heavier as she spoke in her usual crisp voice. "No, I would not like a—a _lemon drop_." She almost spat out the name of the candy as if it were a personal insult to her. "Albus, we don't have time for offering candy. I came to tell you of something the Order discovered a short while ago."

Albus straightened, placing the dish on the desk. "What has happened, Minerva?" He feared the worst—with Voldemort's Death Eaters still out there, not to mention the Dark Lord himself, there were numerous dangers the Order of the Phoenix needed to look out for. "Was it another attack?"

Minerva frowned. "No," she answered slowly. "Not attacks so much, and not by Death Eaters as far as we can tell. This is more like… Albus, you're well aware that we have had Sturgis Podmore following the tail of Augustus Filliban."

"Yes."

Her mouth thinned. "Well, as Sturgis followed Filliban like he usually did two days ago, watching the the thief as he started on his rounds."

Albus nodded. Augustus Filliban was a wizard whose life and morals one could argue did not reflect the life of an honorable man. He was very much like Mundungus Fletcher, actually, thieving and lying. It was rumored that he had killed a man once, but that claim had never been found either false or true. Lately, there had been worrisome signs that Filliban had been leaning towards Dark tendencies and the Order was concerned he would go to Voldemort and the Death Eaters, so Albus had set Sturgis on his tail to watch him.

"Sturgis didn't _lose_ him, did he?"

Minerva's mouth thinned even more. "As a matter of fact, he did," she answered tartly. As Albus sat back in his seat heavily, unable to quite believe it, she elaborated. "Sturgis told us that he had been following Filliban, who had stopped in a store in Knockturn Alley. He said that as Filliban was leaving two cloaked people suddenly appeared and spoke to him, saying that he "had disappointed his employer by selling them such eroded tools", at which point Filliban attempted to flee and was Stunned and Apparated away. Sturgis hadn't even had time to move before they were gone."

Albus sat silently for a long moment in stunned surprise, then Minerva's voice broke through his troubled thoughts.

"Albus, this isn't You-Know-Who's doing, is it?"

He looked back up at her silently, unable to answer immediately. He could hear the anxiety, even fear, in her voice—the thought of Voldemort was frightening anyway, and it was understandable that Minerva would be so nervous about it.

Voldemort had been seemingly vanquished eighteen years before at Godric's Hollow—the night that James and Lily Potter had been murdered, and also the same time that their son had gone missing. Although Harry had been looked for, all of Europe carefully combed for signs of him, nothing had ever been discovered, and it was a common belief that the boy, now dubbed the "Boy-Who-Lived" since he survived the Killing Curse, ha, in fact, died. That had been a severe blow to the world of Wizarding Britain. The only hope they had retained in this was that Voldemort seemed gone for good.

And it had seemed that way for thirteen years, until the year that the Twiwizard Tournament was reinstated at Hogwarts. During that year, a student had been murdered and Voldemort rose again with the aide of Peter Pettigrew and Barty Crouch, Junior. Since then, Wizarding Britain had been desperately fighting against the Dark Lord and his followers, but every day the world slipped into Darkness, and it would not be very much longer before it was lost completely to Voldmort's mercy. Hogwarts itself only remained free because the Dark lord feared Dumbledore and his power.

"No," he said finally to her question. "No, I don't believe that it is. He was too randomly kidnapped, and it seems that these two people were only following some request. Did Sturgis say that they were hostile? Dangerous? Merciless?"

Minerva shook her head. "He said they seemed dangerous, certainly, but they didn't seem hostile or merciless. He said they sounded young, one boy and one girl, but he couldn't catch sight of their faces—they seemed wrapped in shadows. Filliban, too, he said didn't look overly frightened, although frightened enough, but certainly not enough if it were He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named he was being brought before." She frowned as if considering that.

"Hm." Albus hummed to himself for a moment, not even flinching when Fawkes, his familiar phoenix, bit into a bone at his stand. "Minerva, do you remember the reports over the past few months that a number of our… our "targets" for lack of a better word… have been abducted, and all by the same two people? The boy and girl, hidden from sight? Granted, this all may be odd coincidence, but I've decided that the older I get the less I believe in coincidence." He smiled wryly, and even Minerva's mouth twitched—Albus was, after all, over a hundred years old. "What if we were able to discover when and where these two people were going to strike next? Would you be willing to have them taken here and talked with? Would the others be as willing for that?"

It was a question that made her pause, but finally her gaze brightened, and he had his answer. He supposed she should call an Order meeting—they needed to be on the outlook for two young rogue wizards.

A/N: There it is, the third chapter done! Yay, I'm so happy that I finally got it posted. I really am sorry for the delay, but I've only just recently finished play, and for three days afterwards I _slept_. A LOT. I've been working on a couple of other stories at the same time as this one, and hopefully I'll be able to post them up as well, but I WILL get this story done! Next update? Don't know—suppose it'll be when I have the time, although right now I'm focusing on passing my _freaking_ Government class at school so I can graduate and get the hell out of my high school, which I _loathe_. (If you had the administrators and principal and teachers I have, you'd want to graduate too!)

Read and review, please! They help my self-esteem ever so much!


	4. Chapter 4

"_**Chapter 4"**_

A/N: Here I am with the fourth chapter—I'm so proud of myself, since I think my family and friends have recently labeled me as an official procrastinator. This chapter will introduce the Order, they'll finally meet the two mysterious "abductees" (here the author snickers to herself—oh, the irony!), and the story will _finally_ begin in earnest!

As to starboy454's question of pairings, I personally thought a Harry/Hermione love story wasn't _right_ for this. My logic for Harry and Hermione being brother-sister was that growing up so close and stuff would make them feel odd if they tried romance 9as you will later hear Harry say). I've already decided the pairings for this story, so all I can ask is that you all accept them gracefully. That said, please enjoy!

_Outskirts of London, One Week Later_

"This the place then?" Mad-Eye Moody, ex-Auror, growled to a nervous Mundungus Fletcher. They, with eleven other Order members, stood in an old abandoned warehouse in Muggle London. It _seemed_ abandoned, anyway. The walls were crumbling, the roof sagging inwards, decrepit, and a right sorry mess that should have been torn down years ago. Really, Muggles were very wasteful—wizards didn't just let things fall apart.

Mundungus, a small, squat man with rather droopy eyes and a tangled, unwashed mop of red hair, nodded jerkily in answer of Moody's question, gulping past his fear. "Tha's righ'," he said, making it very clear his reluctance to even be here. "This 's the place they 'ave meetin's with us."

"And you're sure you never saw their faces?" Mad-Eye growled, scowling—well, the Order thought he was scowling, but with the scars crisscrossed across his face, it made it difficult to make out his expressions sometimes. At Mundungus' nod, he rolled his normal eye. "Idiot," he snarled, "you shouldn't deal with people who don't show their faces!"

It had been a week since Albus Dumbledore had called the order of the Phoenix together and told them that they were needed to search for two wizards who had been causing trouble for them. He hadn't told them much, except that the two strangers had taken Augustus Filliban prisoner beneath Sturgis Podmore's very nose. It had been with the greatest reluctance following a cornering in Diagon Alley that Mundungus had told the Headmaster that he, too, dealt with these self-same strangers as Filliban had done, and now he had led them here. Mundungus was actually supposed to do some business with them in a short while, and so the Order set in to wait for them.

When Mundungus tried to tell them now again that they shouldn't do this, Mad-Eye snarled at him and told him to shut up, and just as he stopped speaking the Order heard the approaching footsteps of two different people coming down the walk. Immediately the Order melted into the shadows, wanting the element of surprise against whoever was there. Mundungus was left standing uneasily in the open, trying to control his growing panic, as the door of the warehouse swung inwards.

Dung had been right—the strangers were hidden from sight behind black, lightweight cloaks that hid everything from sight except for their hands, which were also covered by black leather gloves. Their faces were not covered by a cowl, but a strange spell none of them knew seemed to have spun shadows around their features, so they couldn't even see the gender of the strangers—it was like standing with them in a dark room, for all the advantage of sight it gave the Order against these two if there was a fight.

Nevertheless, the two strangers were an impressive sight, not frightening, just awe-inspiring. And not Dark, not in the sense of the Death Eaters. Would these two go as far as killing? They could—it was not a possibility that the Order members would cast aside. These two strangers did take Filliban captive, after all.

"Fletcher," one of the strangers spoke softly, but even then a spell had been cast to make it impossible to guess the gender. These people were the masters at disguise, Moody thought grudgingly, his lip curling. Damn! "I trust you have brought what we need?"

"Y-yes," Dung stammered, and his fear seemed to amuse the smaller of the two.

"Frightened of us, Mundungus?"

"W-what makes y-you say that?"

They snorted. "Come now, Fletcher—even a blind man can tell you're petrified of us. You have no need to be—_if_ you have the things we need."

"R-right here." Mundungus passed over a large cloth sack that seemed heavy, if his heaving to pick it up was any indication. The two strangers handled it together, but didn't look at it. One of them chuckled.

"Still scared of us, then? We've told you, fletcher, you have nothing to fear from us. The ones who should be scared are the ones who are hiding here listening in. You part of this scheme, Dung?"

"Damn it!" Moody hissed, just as all hell broke loose. Their cover blown, the Order knew this was their only chance to try and grab the troublemakers, and sprang into action, casting Apparition Wards around and throwing hexes and jinxes at the two wizards, who immediately responded with their own hexes and spells.

Merlin, were they _fast_! They moved all in one smooth motion, graceful and lithe, erecting a Shield Charm across their front, or their companion's flank, and casting jinxes and hexes of their own. All the while they were moving, running and leaping across the room, almost impossible to see. Their cloaks seemed to blend into the shadows and didn't hinder their movement. They didn't even seem concerned about friendly fire, even when they were on opposite sides of the building. Three of the Order members fell to the ground sporting superficial cuts or hexes. Nothing life-threatening, per se, but still showing a lot of violence.

It was Kinsley Shacklebolt who finally managed to hit one of their adversaries, and it was with a startled, short cry of surprise and pain that they fell to the floor—the Auror had sent a Burning Hex their way. The Order members all froze in surprise at the sound—the one who had cried out sounded female, quite young, the spell covering her clearly scrambled from the pain she was in. She sounded young, perhaps only twenty. A girl. They had attacked a girl. Even as they watched, however, the shadows around her dissipated, revealing the face of a young woman with large brown eyes and a mass of short, bushy brown hair. She may have seemed young, but there was a fury in her expression that showed she really wasn't one you should make the mistake of underestimating.

Her companion, seeing her on the floor, gave a yell of rage, calling some guttural noise, and in the space of an instant they were in front of her, facing the Orders' wands fully, protecting her, the spells around them vanishing, just daring the Order members to do something. But they could do nothing but stare at him in open shock.

Any of them who had met James Potter thought they were looking at a ghost, except this stranger was too young to be the former. He was only a boy, about the girl's age, tall and thin and wiry, his long unmanageable hair black as ebony—

And it was a pair of fierce, almond-shaped emerald green eyes that looked so angrily at them. A collective gasp rose softly seeing Lily Evans' eyes in James potter's face—this boy wasn't wearing glasses, but that didn't make any difference. His appearance caused many of their mouths to drop in stunned disbelief.

"Impossible," Tonks gasped.

"_Don't_," they heard him hiss now, and there was cold fury evident in every line of his face, "_Touch. Her._" There was more danger in that one voice than in a whole army's, and the order instinctively recoiled.

All except one. Mad=Eye Moody kept his wand trained fixedly on the two teenagers, both of his eyes glaring at them. "You think we'll listen to a runt like you, boy?"

They watched the boy stiffen, and the temperature seemed to drop. He seemed to prepare himself—

"Harry, no," came the girl's pained, slightly breathless voice, and the Order felt shock course through them again. Harry. She had called him Harry. Could it be possible that this was Harry _Potter_, the Boy Who Lived himself?

The fury in his expression deepened. "They hurt you," he snarled, his gaze riveted on Moody. "God forbid I don't kill them! I'll rip them apart!" His face told the Order he was prepared to do just that, and it sent shivers down their spines.

But the girl only rolled her eyes. "I'm not dying. You don't have to be so bloody melodramatic all the time, you know."

"Listen to her, son," Sturgis Podmore said as gently as he could. "We aren't trying to kill you, either of you. You've just taken one of our allies, and so we've been asked to bring you in."

"To see who? The Minister of Magic?" Harry sneered, and he laughed snidely. "I'd like to see that useless heap of lard do _anything_."

"Not the Minister," Kingsley replied, his voice hardening. The rest of the Order looked at the boy in disbelief, unable to believe the utter disrespect in his voice at the mention of the minister of Magic and the derogatory comment he'd made. "To the head of our organization. Albus Dumbledore."

There came a surprised gasp from the floor in response of the name, but Harry only frowned, the fury in his stance lessening a little. "That meddling old fool?" he asked with a slight smirk. "What makes you think we'd want to talk with_ him_?"

If his comment about the Minister enraged the Order members, then the slight on Albus really made them furious. Moody looked ready to spit fire. "We weren't _asking_, boy," he growled. "We're _ordering_ you to."

"I'd like to see you try," Harry said coldly.

It was the girl who spoke. "I think we should, Harry," she said in the heavy tension. That garnered a simply dumbstruck look from him as he turned to look at her. She still lay on the floor, pale and panting slightly, but she managed a rather cheeky grin. "Come on, it's _Albus Dumbledore_. He may be an old duffer, but just think of all the _knowledge_ he has! Besides, it's not like we can't just leave afterwards."

A rather dark grin crossed his face as he thought it over. Then: "All right," he agreed, looking unimpressed, "we'll go with you, but only because Hermione here seems to think it a good idea. And if this lands us in trouble, 'Mione," he said to her now, "I will personally beat you senseless."

The way he said it, it sounded like a death threat, but Hermione merely laughed. "All right," she said unconcernedly, "but it's not going to get us into trouble."

"So says you," Harry retorted, but there was no venom in his voice. "Trouble is my middle name."

"And mine's smart-ass," Hermione replied smoothly, shifting—and then she winced, one hand flying up to her side. "Ouch," she breathed.

All playfulness abruptly vanishing, Harry knelt beside her, reaching to touch her side as well. "What is it?" he asked worriedly.

She shook her head. "Burning Hex. Skin's red and inflamed."

"Here." Without even a glance at the Order, Harry waved his wand over her wound and they saw her relax immediately, no doubt rid of the awful feel of the jinx Kingsley had hit her with. Harry rolled his eyes when she did so. "You're a wimp," he told her bluntly. "Come on—up you get."

Sturgis moved forward to help, but an icy glare from Harry stopped him; they watched as the boy curled himself around her like a blanket, shielding her protectively from them. Slowly, careful not to jar her still-tender side, he stood and held her close. It seemed a perfectly natural thing for them to do, so the Order let it slide as they prepared to Apparate to Hogwarts.

They Apparated to the outskirts of the castle grounds, which stood in all its majestic beauty upon the slopes of the mountains. Late-night mists drifted over the Black Lake, breaking off in wisps to lazily blow across the other parts of the grounds. As secretly as they could, the Order watched Harry's and Hermione's reactions carefully. Both were looking around curiously, combing the grounds for any danger—a funny sight indeed, with Hermione still held in Harry's arms. They did look properly awed—maybe a little wistful—as they saw Hogwarts far above them.

"Exactly what it's said to look like," Hermione whispered.

"Hush," Harry said, but like her there was a note of pleasure in his voice at the beauty of the castle.

The Order led the way up to the giant gates, where a team of Aurors let them in. Hermione had talked Harry into letting her down so she wouldn't have to face the embarrassment of being carried through, and instead limped slightly by his side. Luckily, it was late enough in the night that they didn't have to worry about students seeing them, which was just as well since Hermione stopped them numerous times to look at something with an excited explanation of whatever it was they were looking at. The information she seemed able to retain was simply astounding, and the Order members were looking at her in surprise that was steadily rising to amazed respect, but Harry's mouth continually grew tighter and tighter the more often they stopped, until finally he stopped and silenced her with just a look that seemed to convey a whole conversation. She blushed and nodded, and she didn't speak again, but it didn't seem to do any good for Harry—he became more and more agitated the farther they walked, barely aware of his surroundings, and sent hot glares at anyone who dared make eye contact with him. It was very clear what he thought of these so called "Order members".

Finally, they approached the large stone gargoyle that led up to the Headmaster's office.

"Fizzing whizbees," was the password that made it move aside to reveal the spiral case it guarded. Harry slouched a bit, and a faint smirk spread across his face as he looked down at Hermione.

"Ladies first."

She rolled her eyes. "Bloody coward," she muttered with a grin. "If we were fighting a _dragon_ you'd say that."

"You know me," he deadpanned, "I value self-preservation."

The look on her face clearly said, _Are you kidding?_ But she didn't comment, merely laughed shortly and headed up the staircase—Harry, of course, was right behind her, making sure she didn't aggravate her still-smarting side any more. When they finally stopped before the door, both of the teenagers were looking vaguely nervous, and they stiffened slightly as Moody, scowling darkly, reached up and rapped hard on the oak wood.

"Come in," came Albus' deep voice, and the door swung open of its own accord.

In the space of that instant, both Hermione and Harry suddenly went from looking nervous and even awed to almost frighteningly calm and collected, and the Order members realized fully that these two were masters at deception, carefully trained to protect themselves against anyone they thought a danger. An annoying wriggle of doubt seized them—what of Harry and Hermione was real? What was fake, merely a mask to fool an outsider? They hoped Albus would be able to unravel them—this was beyond even their skill. They all walked into the large, spacious office, full of its usual moving and churring magical instruments, and the large portraits rested on the walls behind the Headmaster's desk. Albus himself was not seated, but standing serenely for them. Seeing the Order come in, he smiled.

"Ah, so you've come back!" he said happily. "With our friends, I hope?"

Moody growled. "They ain't any friends of ours, Albus, but yeah, we got 'em." He moved aside from in front of the two teens.

Albus's reaction was rather comical. Immediately, his eyes fell upon Harry, and he paled, and he actually stumbled back a step against his desk, his mouth dropping open. It seemed he didn't even care to find out the boy's name, but he didn't need to. Anyone who had known James and Lily Potter could see for themselves that this was their son.

"Alastor," he whispered finally, keeping his eyes fixed on upon the boy before him, "please lead the others out. I would like to speak with our guests alone."

The scarred ex-Auror looked like he'd very much like to argue, but no one ever won an argument with Albus Dumbledore, and so with his eyes looking suspiciously at Harry and Hermione, he nodded and shoved the other Order members out of the door. It slammed shut behind them, plunging the office into a deep silence, with the three of them simply looking at each other waiting for someone to break it.

Albus moved first, very white in the face, his long thin fingers gripping the desk for support. "My dear boy," he whispered. "I must say… this is truly a – a most remarkable thing thing…" Harry looked at him wholly unimpressed. The aged Headmaster sensed that and pulled himself up from his shock, visibly shaking himself. "Won't you and the young lady beside you sit? I am sure it will be much more comfortable." He waved his wand and two chairs sprang into existence, settling behind the two teenagers. Tense stillness reigned for a long moment, until finally, in perfect sync, Harry and Hermione seated themselves, silent and their hands clutched tightly together. Albus smiled, encouraged by this, and offered them a bowl of candy. "Lemon drop?"

Hermione stiffened in her seat, her dark eyes flashing, looking very much like she'd like to call him a duffer, but a swift glance of warning from Harry stopped her short.

"No, thank you," he answered for them both, straining for pleasant politeness. "Neither of us care much for sweets."

"Who is the young lady sitting there glaring at me?" Albus asked, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon glasses.

"Hermione," she said before Harry could answer. She sounded cold.

"Hermione," they heard Albus repeat softly. "Could your last name be by any chance 'Granger'?"

She seemed to hesitate for a moment—and then she slumped slightly. "I- I don't know," she answered reluctantly, softly. "I never knew my parents. They died before I turned one."

"Hmm." Albus looked pensive for a moment. "A Hermione Granger had been on the lists to join Hogwarts when she turned eleven… You seem to be the right age as well."

She shrugged, hiding her sudden upwelling of emotion behind a nonchalant façade. "I don't care," she lied easily. "I have all the family I need right here, and all the facts I need to survive. You're not identified by a last name, you know."

Albus smiled, looking pleased. "Very nicely phrased," he said. "And as I have performed a genealogy spell, I can see you are in fact the very same Hermione Granger who was supposed to come to this school eight years before—that would make you nineteen, would it not, Miss Granger?"

"Almost twenty," she said coldly. "And my last name is not 'Granger', it's 'Potter'."

That surprised the Headmaster—his eyes swept over to Harry, and then down to their hands.

"It's nothing romantic, Headmaster," Harry said tightly. "Hermione is a Potter in every sense of the word except by actual blood—she's my sister."

"Surely you are interested in finding your real family—both of you?" Albus asked, and it sounded almost like a protest.

"My parents were killed, and I never bothered to find anyone," Hermione answered softly.

"Neither of us needed to know," Harry added.

Albus sat back down at his desk, his usual serene look back on his face. "We must call certain individuals here, my boy," he said quietly, and ignored the way both Harry and Hermione tensed at his words.

"Like who?" Harry asked, trying to keep himself from speaking roughly, trying to conceal his sudden surge of panic. "Hermione and I don't know anyone of your Order, except for the ones who attacked us."

"I'm meaning, especially, your godfather, Sirius Black," Albus replied, his eyes twinkling as he ate a lemon drop. "I daresay he will want to see you."

"He never looked for me?"

Albus frowned. "Of course he looked for you, Harry, which is why he'll want to see you. These past eighteen years have been very hard for him. So, if you give me a moment, I can send him a message—"

"No." Harry glared up at Dumbledore, and Hermione tightened her grip on his hand, feeling tension quivering up his arms. "If I meet him, Headmaster, it will be by my own terms, not yours. Give me the address of his home and I'll go see him myself." His expression brooked no argument, and even the mighty Albus Dumbledore could see it would be difficult to win this discussion—it reminded him of Lily Potter, and her own very unique sense of stubbornness. It caused him to chuckle to himself, something that did not help his image of slight insanity. He was burning with curiosity, both about how Harry came to be here and who had found him all those years ago, but he decided it would be easier to make the boy stay here if Sirius got hold of him first. He didn't need to worry about Voldemort with this, either—one look and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither of the teenagers were followers of Voldemort, especially since none of his Order had been injured seriously.

He nodded. "All right," he agreed finally, and watched Harry and Hermione both untense right where they sat.

Five minutes later, taking their leave from the Headmaster, Hermione shook her head. "I was disappointed," she admitted. "He's nothing like I thought he would be. Maybe Cleo was right about him."

Harry smirked, and bending down, he whispered in her ear, "The old duffer, indeed."


End file.
